


paradise burning

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Anti-Hero, Dark Thoughts, Fanfic tag, Gen, M/M, Red John's a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is ironic how words, once used to describe Red John, had also become words to describe him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paradise burning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belatrix/gifts).
  * Inspired by [get me bandages, bring me flowers and arsenic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692611) by [belatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belatrix/pseuds/belatrix). 



> After reading "get me bandages, bring me flowers and arensic" by graydoll, I couldn't help but write the, "if Jane had let Red John go" opposite to her "he did not" piece.
> 
> (Also, filling a square in my H/C Bingo card - > rape/non-con)

The water is blistering hot against his pale skin and his wrist bleed as he scrubs, but Jane does not care.

 

The water is blistering hot against his pale skin and his fingers are like vines—wrapping so intricately around the grip of the gun, until they wither away into nothingness—but Jane does not care. He stares at the white wall and allows the water to burn him, to cleanse him, to do _anything and everything_ but remind him that he let Red John leave.

 

He does everything to _keep_ from pointing the barrel of the gun at his own head. He does everything to _keep_ from placing the barrel of the gun into his mouth and pulling the trigger. But the thought is so strong—and he cannot get the smell of oolong tea from his nostrils, the taste from his mouth, no matter how many times he has burnt his lips and bled from his gums—and the image of blood-soaked white walls and whittled lips and a cauterized tongue amongst the debris helps him breathe again.

 

From a distance, he can hear his phone ringing and he thinks about being sorry.

 

But Jane does not care.

 

Nor is he truly sorry, because _nobody is ever truly sorry_.

 

::::

 

When tragedy strikes, self-preservation kicks in.

 

Jane is not Saint Teresa Lisbon. He will never _be_ Saint Patrick, for he is a self-centered and callous bastard. Without shame, he wears his plentiful pelt of sins like a shroud; and when he smiles, those sins bleed into his saltwater smile. He is a man, who exudes _tragedy_ and _remorse_ as if they were pulsating neon signs about his head.

 

He did not join the Bureau to save others. He joined the Bureau to _torture_ Red John; and because he is _not_ Teresa Lisbon, he does not care about the afterwards. He thinks, instead, _I will never be clean, I let him go,_ and his hands shake at the intermediate.

 

He fears, instead, that Red John will return for more— _soft, gentle, quiet_ —and suddenly, he is on his knees and his mouth is dry.

 

The gun remains at his feet.

 

He never once thinks about _them_.

 

::::

 

To every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction – a rule, Jane knows all too well.

 

 And Red John likes to play by that rule too; for every slanderous word Jane had said without forethought, all of those years ago on national television, were how many times his beautiful wife and his little girl with the downy of golden curls had been carved into.

 

 _(He’s an ugly, tormented little man, a lonely soul, sad, very sad_.)

 

It is ironic how words, once used to describe Red John, had also become words to describe him too.

 

Back in his fingers and with a mouth tasting of copper, the gun trembles.

 

::::

 

By the time, his skin has blistered and blood-speckled white wraps his wrists, he has ten missed calls, four unread text messages and six voicemails.

 

Every single one of them from Lisbon and his smile sours.

 

 _You’re late_.

 

_Where in the hell are you?_

_Jane, are you okay?_

_Call me as soon as you get this._

                “I’m fine, Lisbon,” he tells her, before she can even say _hello_ or start berating him. “You don’t need to send out the search dogs.”

 

                “Teresa isn’t here at the moment, Patrick,” Red John replies softly and Jane imagines his cut of teeth smile, “but I’ll be sure to tell her you said hi.”

 

He considers saying something heroic like _if you hurt her, I will hurt you_ because he just cannot lose Lisbon either—but Red John immediately quiets him and he’s almost relieved. He’s not a hero. He’s not Lisbon. “Oh come now, Patrick. How else did you truly expect this to go? You, after all, did agree that we had to meet again.”

 

                “I did,” Jane comments, locking his fingers around the trigger of the gun. “Where are you?”

 

Red John laughs. “You’re the psychic,” he deadpans. “You tell me, boy wonder.”

 

The line goes dead.

 


End file.
